


Conquer

by exbex



Series: Eccentricities by Osmosis [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Body Image, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Protectiveness, Siblings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-26
Updated: 2012-02-26
Packaged: 2017-10-31 18:44:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/347238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/exbex/pseuds/exbex





	Conquer

Mycroft Holmes had thought that he was past the point in his life of having any firsts left, but today he leaves work in the middle of the afternoon, for no other reason than that he’s wanting a shag and possibly a nap with his partner.

There’s a cold rain falling, and he swallows two paracetamol to prevent the ache that’s starting in his shoulders from climbing up into his head. It’s been a terribly long week, and Mycroft’s determination to trade his old end-of-week Scotch habit in for John Watson (his skin, his eyes, his voice) has been brewing steadily for days.

He waits outside of 221 Baker Street, standing in the rain, and when John approaches and pulls up short, blinking in surprise, it’s reminiscent of three years ago. Mycroft pushes the memory away, knowing that this meeting will be infinitely more satisfying and holds the umbrella over John as John unlocks the door.

“Everything alright?” John asks as he turns back to Mycroft.

“Fine,” Mycroft tries for steady, calm. Desire and nervousness both churn in his stomach, along with a strange sense of irritation at the rain for leaving John drenched and shivering slightly.

“So, you’re not here about Sherlock, then?” John is leading the way up the seventeen steps, turning his head only slightly to look at Mycroft.

“I can assure you that Sherlock has absolutely no business being in the plans I have for us this afternoon, John.” Mycroft’s heart-rate increases as John finally turns to him, unable to contain a grin.

“Right then. Tea?”

“No. Thank you. Let’s get you out of those wet clothes.”

Mycroft gives two towels to John, and takes two more to his bedroom. It’s Spartan, save for the scent of Watson all around, and it makes Mycroft feel bold as he pulls back the covers and spreads one towel on the mattress. He opens the drawer to the left side of the bed and retrieves a tube of lubricant.

John pads into the room, still toweling his hair. Mycroft tugs at the towels and, satisfied that John is sufficiently dry but not convinced that he’s properly warm (he still shivers, slightly, though this, Mycroft would like to think, could be from anticipation), pulls him in for a long kiss.

He pulls away slowly and takes John’s left hand, carefully placing the lube into it. “On your back, if you please. Get yourself ready.” Mycroft raises an eyebrow at John’s deliberate, teasing slowness. “That’s an order, Soldier.”

John can’t hold back a grin, but his look quickly turns to challenging. He holds Mycroft’s gaze as he slowly, maddeningly slowly, works himself open with slicked up fingers. Mycroft can’t quite reconcile the idea that it should look awkward with the reality that it’s causing him to fumble with his tie and buttons. He’s desperately hoping that the flush that’s creeping up his neck will be seen as arousal rather than the dread of undressing for a captive audience.

Mycroft swallows the fear, and holds John’s gaze. He pretends that he’s facing someone difficult, or dangerous. He’d like to break John down, make John dependent on him, and he’s just slightly ashamed of that fact.

Mycroft can finally shove aside every last insecurity once he’s inside John, buried to the hilt, John’s ankles hooked over his shoulders. John is wearing his most satisfied grin, and he turns his head and half-buries his face in a pillow. Mycroft thrusts with a bit more force, hitting his prostate, and John lets out an unself-conscious whimper, lifting his hips slightly to take Mycroft in deeper.

John’s scent is arousing, a mix of rain and sweat. Mycroft decides that submerging his nose into John’s hair, which is damp from the same mix of sweat and rain, is a splendid idea, and does so once John has climaxed. He settles himself on top of John and rides out his own orgasm.

“Will you stay the night?” John murmurs in a haze of pleasure and drowsiness. “Sherlock’s probably at Greg’s all night.”

“There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.” Mycroft finishes cleaning both of them up and discards the towels. He puts his arms around John and listens to his breathing becoming deeper with sleep. Years of following an intense work schedule have left their imprint, and Mycroft finds himself wide awake, in spite of his lassitude. He slowly slides out of bed and redresses, briefly considering leaving his tie and waistcoat, but puts them on anyway, pressing them firmly in place. He sits in the armchair facing the bed, and unconsciously adopts his brother’s thinking pose, watching John’s form languish in the sheets and blankets.

He finally pads downstairs for some tea, and blinks in surprise at finding a brooding Sherlock draped on the sofa.

“You’re not at Lestrade’s,” he manages.

“Clever deduction,” Sherlock murmurs in a tone that would sound bored if Mycroft didn’t know him. He suddenly sits upright, casting a critical eye on Mycroft. “I do hope you don’t plan to bugger off after defiling my flatmate.”

In Mycroft’s mind, there are two very distinct responses to the thought of defilement of one John Watson. There is a response called for by the literal interpretation of the concept, which would require the use of all of Mycroft’s considerable resources, and there is the response called for by Sherlock’s rather over-dramatic and frankly over-protective use of the word “defiling” (though Mycroft is willing to admit to himself that Sherlock’s protectiveness of John is not exactly unwelcome). Mycroft is aware that his over-tired state is at least partly responsible, but he doesn’t bother resisting the dragging of a weary hand over his face and the undignified laughter that accompanies it. He peers through his fingers to catch Sherlock huffing out a laugh in spite of himself, and mentally attempts to reconcile his considerable, if restrained, respect for Greg Lestrade with his own protectiveness.

He lets his hand fall to his side, and chooses his tone cautiously. “It’s quite normal, Sherlock, to have a row on occasion. Things tend to remedy themselves.”

Sherlock scowls. “I’m well aware of that, Mycroft.” But the barely perceptible release of tension in Sherlock’s shoulders allows Mycroft to retreat from ideas, however ludicrous, of necessary action against a certain Detective Inspector.

Mycroft sits down slowly in one of the adjacent chairs. Sherlock stands to his feet and moves to retrieve the violin. He draws the bow across the strings, once, then pauses. “John always cooks for his dates,” he says casually. “If you stay, he’ll cook for you.”

It takes no effort for Mycroft to see through it, as Sherlock only speaks casually when he’s being manipulative, or guarding himself. Regardless, it seemingly spreads a warmth through him, and he idly wonders why he’s grown so soft. “I suppose that decides it then,” he says quietly.

Sherlock’s smile is small but evident, as he begins to play.


End file.
